


A Shared Madness

by brocanteur



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-30
Updated: 2010-08-30
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:05:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brocanteur/pseuds/brocanteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: working extraction may affect your dream life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Shared Madness

Dreams are ephemeral little things, once you're out of them. Once it's over, a dream leaves only a residue, a sense of itself—a fleeting feeling that becomes less tangible the longer you're awake. The harder you try to hold onto it, the faster it becomes a murky nothingness in your stubborn fist.

Arthur hates his own dreams. He hates their literalness, as if they were each constructed by an unimaginative architect. Here there is a room, and in that room there is a bed and a chair, and on the walls there is wallpaper, the same pattern his grandparents had in their bedroom; it is a dull room, replete with banality.

The only flourish is Eames, who is not Eames but a construct. (Is he? He must be.) He lies on the bed, wearing a nailhead waistcoat and matching trousers; his dress shirt is very white, very crisp, and he smells like rose petals dipped in brandy. When he smiles wolfishly, Ariadne is suddenly beside him, sitting cross-legged, playing solitaire. The game progresses even after Eames reaches over and pilfers a card. He holds it up: it is the three of clubs.

Three, _three._ The number of times Arthur knocks his heel into the ground. From below he hears an echo, a reply. Then, the bed is empty of Eames and the cards are gone and Ariadne looks worried.

"There's a job," she says. Flat on her stomach, she reaches blindly under the bed and pulls out a pair of boots. She puts them on and ties the laces like a child. "You should come. And you should bring that."

Arthur looks down at his open hand. A nine millimeter Luger sits in his palm. Its heft becomes apparent only when he looks at it. Then it is solid; real. He wraps his fingers around it, strokes the muzzle.

"What kind of job?" he asks.

"The kind you like."

 

They're in a wood—it is deep, dark, lovely, and covered in snow—and Ariadne has brought along the sister she never had. The sister has no name, being another of Arthur's constructs (she must be), and it is only once she speaks—"there's a tree we might climb"—that he decides he should have something to call her.

"What's your name?"

The sister says, "Dido. Like the queen—"

 _The Aeneid_ is one of Arthur's favorite poems. He completes the thought: "Who died for love."

Instantly, the sister is Mal, and her eyes flash with malice. She says, "Not for love. For an end, for another beginning. One should never die for love."

"She's the job, Arthur." Ariadne is panicked. "Arthur, you have to—"

Mal holds a sturdy little axe, and with it she hacks into Ariadne with extraordinary force. Arthur can't close his eyes, so he looks up, and the sky is bloody.

Then he remembers his gun. "Oh," he whispers. " _Oh._ "

Mal's cheeks are splattered red. She pushes her hair away from her face as she notes the gun in Arthur's hand with mild interest. "That's not how it works, you know? _That_ resolves nothing."

"What's the job?" he asks, confused. "You've killed the architect."

"He's alive." When she stands, Mal's instrument drip-drips at her side. Her hands are stained crimson. She's beautiful—a blue-eyed Fury. "We're all alive, somewhere."

"This isn't an extraction. I'd know my job. I always know my job."

In a dream, physics are meaningless. Try running, try swimming, and you'll find acceleration, torque and gravity are fickle, half-remembered rules. Sometimes a dream will trick you into believing you can fly. The logic of the world is not the logic of a dream, and so Arthur doesn't bother aiming when he fires the gun. Mal touches her chest, and her expression simulates surprise. A red flower blooms over her heart; it grows and grows.

—

An airport bar. Saito sits beside him. He's telling a story.

Ice cubes tinkle in his glass as he swirls his whiskey. "A joke," he says, quite seriously. "Are you listening?"

Arthur nods. "Sure."

"Two businessmen die in an airplane crash."

"So far, so funny."

Saito smiles. "When they wake up, they find they are not in Heaven, and they are not in Hell."

"Limbo?" Arthur ventures to take a drink. It tastes like nothing, not even like water. When he smacks his lips, he imagines vodka stinging the back of his throat.

"Yes, that's right. Only these men, they arrive in their limbo together. They _share it_."

"Tell me, were your businessmen lovers? When they were alive?" Arthur dips his fingers into his glass. Cold. How curious...

"Lovers?" Saito arches a brow. "No, they were bitter rivals."

"It's possible to be both," Arthur muses. He waves for the bartender and asks for something a bit stronger. A double. "But, I'm sorry. Do go on. They're in limbo...?"

"The man who was older, when they were alive, he says, 'You couldn't let me beat you to this, could you? Our race ends, and yet here we are. Here we will remain.'"

Arthur drinks his new drink. It tastes better, but he feels nothing. Flat-voiced, he remarks, "I'm laughing so hard, I'm dying, Mr. Saito."

"What does it matter what we achieve, what we own, if we are more alive in dreams than we are in life?"

—

Eames' skin shimmers in the sun; white sand sticks to his legs, the back of his arms. He wears sunglasses, and in them Arthur sees his own eyes, reflected.

"This is one of mine," Arthur says. "Isn't it?"

Eames gives him a curious look. "You should know better than to ask someone else. Use your damned totem." He smiles sweetly. "I'll close my eyes, shall I?"

Arthur's swim trunks have no pockets. "I don't have it," he says helplessly.

"Perhaps you've lost it, then." Eames holds out a steady hand. "Come here."

"Fuck you." Arthur walks into the ocean, walks until the water hits his knees. It's cold. Really, really cold. "This is one of _mine._ "

"Why would I care enough to come into one of yours, Arthur? Tell me—how did you get here? D'you remember that?"

"No." He goes to his knees and dips his head into a rushing wave. When he opens his eyes, there's no sting. "Anyway, you're not here."

Eames tilts his head. "Would you like to test that theory?" Lips purse into a mock-kiss as Eames gestures for Arthur to come closer, closer.

Simulacrum, Arthur thinks.

He hates his dreams.

"No."

Then, Arthur dives. He dives and he swims toward another shore. He doesn't tire; he has no need for breath. He swims for days and sees nothing but water.

—

His mom pushes a shopping cart.

"Do I have a coupon for that peanut butter?" she asks, and before he can flip through the unevenly-cut rectangles in his hand, she's taking them from him and doing the job herself. Too slow, Artie. Sometimes she called him that.

"We could go someplace else," he says. "I've got some money. We could, you know, go on vacation. You always said you wanted to go to Hawaii. The beach—"

"Grape or strawberry jelly?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter."

She puts down one of the jars and stares at him, really stares. She looks like she did in the first picture he ever saw of her. She must've been fifteen—ironed hair and bell-bottomed pants and freckles across her nose. She kisses him tenderly on the mouth and touches his cheek with soft, young fingers. "Sweetheart, you spend so much of your time in dreams, you probably can't tell the difference, can you?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. "You don't have to die here, Mother. We can leave."

"Leave? No, don't worry. I've got Sonny."

Sonny was the cat they rescued from her apartment after she died. Kept her company a solid week after the heart attack. As she lay on the couch, staring lifelessly at the tv, Sonny went about the business of slowly starving.

"So," she says, and when Arthur looks at her again, she's as old as she'll ever get. "Grape or strawberry, kiddo?"

Arthur points at the dark pink jar.

"I'll call you," he says. "From Jakarta."

"Oh, Artie, who cares?"

—

There's a gaping wound where the bottom of Ariadne's shirt hits her waist. It periodically oozes, so Arthur asks her if it hurts. She says not. She says nothing hurts anymore.

Eames takes the deck of cards from her and shuffles. They're in that room, the one with the wallpaper Arthur remembers from his grandparents' bedroom. A cornflower pattern stained yellow with age.

"Why aren't you awake?" Arthur asks.

"Guess I'm not dead yet. Or maybe I died and came back. Can we do that?" She glances at Eames, but he shrugs indifferently and shuffles again; he keeps dropping the cards.

She sits down beside him, her legs stretched out as Eames shuffles and shuffles. They look like a married couple, bored out of their skulls.

When Arthur crosses the room, and kneels beside Ariadne, Eames looks up sharply, watching intently as Arthur sticks his finger into her side.

"How does that feel?" Eames asks.

Ariadne says, "Cold. His hand is cold."

Arthur struggles with his words. "Am I the architect?" The wallpaper—the goddamned wallpaper.

As Ariadne shakes her head, Eames replies, "That would be extraordinarily stupid, wouldn't it?"

"Then whose dream is this?"

He hears a knocking from below, like someone's taking a broom handle to the ceiling. Three times—knock, knock, knock. Suddenly angry, Arthur bangs his foot against the floor, countering the sounds with an echoing reply. " _Shut up._ "

It's then that Eames throws his cards; they land everywhere, multiplying and arranging themselves in a near-pattern. Face up, face down, face up, face down—a three of clubs glides to a stop near Arthur's shoe. Before he has a chance to look up, Eames is on him, grabbing him by the shoulders and ushering him toward the window.

"Old boy," Eames says, cool as a cucumber, "let me show you the way out."

Eyes wide open, Arthur whispers, "Bottoms up," a moment before he tumbles through shattering glass that feels like nothing but ice.

—

Dark, pitch black. Then a trickle of light that expands as a door opens above. A hatch. Saito's grim face appears.

"Well."

Arthur scratches at the wall directly beneath the hatch, searching for a ladder, for an escape route. "A little help? Mr. Saito?"

"How did you get down there?"

There was a ... fall? Certainly there had to be a fall. Hesitating, Arthur replies, "I'm not sure."

"You don't remember?"

"No. No, I don't remember. Listen—"

The hatch closes and the room is black. Arthur pounds on the wall, hard. Then harder still, as violently as he can. Beneath his fists, concrete begins to shatter.

A noise, a soft sucking of teeth, startles him.

"That won't do." It's Eames. Eames is down here, too. Somewhere. "There's another wall, behind that one. And another. They'll come crashing down on us, but you won't find a way out."

"Shit." Arthur slides to the ground. "And how did _you_ get here?"

"Same as you, I imagine."

"Explain."

"Come to me, and I will."

"Where are you?"

"Can't you follow my voice? I'll keep talking, and you follow. Are you following? Arthur?"

At first, Arthur crawls, looking for obstacles, but soon he finds the room itself is an obstacle, that it's impossible to locate Eames the way he's suggesting.

"There's an echo," Arthur says. "Your voice is everywhere. Maybe..." He pauses. "Are you against the wall? I can follow the wall."

He ventures forward, but as he does, he feels something brush against his arm. Surprised, he jerks back, but then it's in his lap—a small, soft purring thing. Arthur runs his fingers through its fur; a little head butts against his chest. "Eames? I found a cat."

"Oh, that's Sonny. I think he's lost."

"How did he get in?"

"Same as you, I imagine."

This run-around is tiresome, irritating. Arthur tries again. "And what about you? How did _you_ —"

"Perhaps I fell," Eames says—he sounds very bored, or tired. "Perhaps I was pushed."

—

The bed is soft, black, and surrounded by poppies. Arthur's eyelids are heavy. He had a long day, though he can't remember all of it. He imagines he spent most of it outside, playing. It's summer, after all, and that's what little boys do.

His mother's reading from a book of mythology. Old gods and goddesses mingling with humans, arranging their fates. She stops in the middle of a word and smiles at him as she brushes his hair out of his eyes. "You're not awake, sweetheart."

"I'm not?"

She shakes her head. "You fall asleep. You fall in love. You fall, Arthur. You just fall."

—

Mr. Charles clasps Arthur's shoulder. "We'll help you get out of here, Arthur. I know you must be scared, but trust me, all right? I do this all the time. I'm a professional."

Then it _is_ a dream, but he can't be the architect, not if Dom is here. But why is he calling himself Mr. Charles? And where are—

"Don't worry. I've got this under control. Take a deep breath and follow me."

There isn't much of a choice. Mr. Charles leads him down a long, narrow corridor. It seems to get longer the more they walk, until finally it extends as far as Arthur can see.

"Where are we going? How long will it take? Where are—?"

"Your questions, Arthur," Mr. Charles smiles a chilly smile, "will be answered. In time."

"Dom—"

Mr. Charles pivots on his heel and slams Arthur into the wall. He imagines his lungs contracting, but he feels nothing. And then he does. He feels his heart flutter, and the tightness of Mr. Charles' big hand at his throat.

"Mr. Charles, Arthur. I'm Mr. Charles."

"Is this a job? I would know my job. I'm very good at my job, Dom."

Mr. Charles grows furious. "Don't call me that."

"But—"

Twisting his hand around Arthur's tie, Mr. Charles opens the nearest door and shoves Arthur inside.

—

The darkness. Cold, hard concrete at his back.

The cat's in his lap, making its soft sounds of affection. There's a card in Arthur's hand, and when he runs his fingers along its edges, his mind conjures a single image.

A three of clubs. Three.

Gently pushing Sonny away, Arthur stands and raises his leg. He stomps on the ground. One, two—

And there is light. Everywhere, there is light, overwhelmingly bright. The room is considerably smaller than Arthur imagined it would be. Twenty by twenty, tops.

He looks around for Eames, but instead he finds Mal in one dingy corner, sitting with her legs crossed, playing solitaire. Her stained hatchet rests beside her. A red rose is pinned to her dress, sits over her heart. When she sees Arthur, she glowers.

"Are you lost?" Her manner is very cool.

"Yes."

"You couldn't let me beat you to this, could you?"

Arthur frowns, struck by a painfully sharp sense of déjà vu. "What?"

"Here we are," Mal says. "And here we will remain."

Something's wrong. This isn't his dream, and it is. Foreboding prickles the back of his neck, and Arthur shudders.

"Who are you?" he asks.

Mal crooks her finger. "Come to me, sweet Morpheus, and I'll tell you everything."

Arthur does as he's told. Slowly, he walks to her, and when he's next to her he kneels and bends close, so his ear is next to her lips.

"Tell me."

"A forger," she says, very quietly. Her tongue touches Arthur's earlobe for a moment, and he shudders. "Shared dreams are like folie à deux, dear Arthur. We fall and we fall and we fall."

Kisses taste like nothingness in dreams—they're heavy, portentous, like signifiers instead of physical acts. This one goes so deep it burrows into Arthur's chest, into his lungs. He turns his head to take in air, but Mal is gone. It's Eames. Always Eames, with his rough stubble and sharp teeth and his bravado. Folie à deux. It was their madness that brought them here, into this meandering dreamspace.

"Didn't I kill you?" Arthur says, touching the flower on Eames' jacket. "Wake you up?"

"Next time keep your eyes open when you shoot me in the heart," Eames replies. His breath is sweet on Arthur's lips, like butterscotch candy. How is it so very sweet?

"Were you lost, too?" Arthur asks.

"Yes."

"Was that you, with Ariadne?"

"Yes."

"The cards?"

"Means to an end."

"So this is the end?" Arthur asks. "Is it time to leave?" Time. As if time mattered here. As if it meant anything at all.

"Just look, darling."

There's a knife in Arthur's hand. Eames brings its sharp point to his own throat. Personal, then, and brutal. "Will we wake up?"

Eames smiles arrogantly as he leans into the blade. "Let's find out."

What Arthur knows: this is a dream; Eames will wake up. They will both wake up. They'll die, and they'll live again. (No. Dreams aren't real. Dreams aren't for living.)

"Why do I have to do the dirty work? Why don't you—?"

"Can't. I'm squeamish when it comes to my own demise. You're the cool one, Arthur. You're the one with ice in your veins."

Arthur _feels_ cold. Like he's been dunked in a freezing lake. His fingers are numb, and his hands tremble as he wraps them around the hilt of the knife. "Fine," he says. "We'll do it your way." A part of him wants more time, wants to lick the pinprick of blood off Eames' throat. He knows what that might taste like in waking life, but in this dream he imagines sugar saturating his tongue.

He almost says, "We can stay."

Instead, he raises his arms, determined to finish what they started. Just as he's about to strike the mortal blow, Eames says, a wisp of sadness in his voice, "Is this the first time you've dreamed of killing me?"

Arthur doesn't answer. As he pushes forward, knife sinking into imaginary flesh, a convulsing Eames pulls him into a tight embrace, so that they're pressed together in a macabre dance that chills Arthur to the bone. When they kiss, his mouth fills with cotton candy.

He lets Eames fall to the ground and waits for him to die. (Wake up.) Then, he takes the knife and slits his own throat.

_Wake up._

—

When Arthur wakes up, he turns to look for Eames just as he's reaching to disconnect from the PASIV.

Neither is there.

The window is open. It's snowing outside. The blanket's somewhere on the floor. It's very cold.

Winter in Yuzawa. Yes, he remembers now. They have a job. Mr. Saxena is vacationing with his family, and he is their mark.

He has a job. He is awake.

There, on the nightstand, is his die, his totem. Arthur throws it, and it falls as it should.

A knock at his door.

Eames in his pajamas, smelling of toothpaste and aftershave. He holds up two pills. "For later," he says. "Take one and you'll experience a blissful nothingness. I don't work in my free time, and neither should you."

Arthur doesn't ask Eames what he heard, what sounds seeped through their shared wall; he doesn't want to know. Instead, he takes one of the pills and closes his fist around it, grateful for the return of control. "Later?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stepping into the room, Eames closes the door behind him. "Later. First," he says, reaching for Arthur's loosely-belted robe, "tell me about your dream."


End file.
